Chapter Eight
When the slave answered the door, Styr introduced himself and added, “I’ve come to speak with your master.” He dropped his voice lower. “Is there a thrall among you, named Onund?”
The servant’s expression turned confused. “There is, but only within the last few days.” He looked as if he wanted to ask questions but silenced them.
“Send him to me. This concerns him since he is one of my kin. I have come to free him.”
“Have you?” came a deep voice. “Bold words for a Hardrata.”
Styr saw a man emerge from the shadows. He was slightly taller, with black hair and broad shoulders.
His beard was trimmed close, and around his arms, he wore golden bands.
Rings covered his fingers, and an earring hung from one ear.
“I knew your brother Hakon,” the stranger said. “You’ve traveled far from Hordafylke.”
“How do you know my brother?”
“We were friends for many years as boys. Hakon and I sailed together for a time before I came here. I am Ivar Nikolasson.” The man invited him to sit down, but Styr hesitated. Although the man claimed to know his brother, he wasn’t certain whether or not he would pose a danger to them.
“I can see from your face that you don’t remember me.” Ivar motioned to a servant and ordered him to bring Onund forward. “Perhaps your own man can reassure you that I have not mistreated my thralls.”
He waited for several minutes while Ivar offered him a place to sit.
The large interior of the longhouse was partitioned in several places to offer private sleeping quarters while a large hearth stood in the center of the dwelling.
The rich scent of roasting meat lingered in the air, and all around him, Styr saw evidence of Nikolasson’s wealth.
There were cups made of silver and a chest decorated with ivory and gold in another corner.
Silks and furs lined small couches, and Ivar himself wore a tunic embroidered with silver thread.
Moments later, Onund emerged from outside. The man’s expression was filled with relief at the sight of Styr. “Thank the gods,” he breathed.
Styr stood and signaled for the man to come closer. Lowering his voice to a whisper, he asked, “Where is Elena?”
Onund’s face tightened. “She jumped off the ship to escape her own capture. Ragnar went after her.”
A cold fist gripped him at the thought of his wife in such danger. “Is she alive? Where did this happen?”
“We were attacked by the Danes, a few hours south of the city. They tried to swim to the shore, but I don’t know if they made it.” Onund reached out and gripped his shoulder. “I have prayed to the gods for their safety.”
Styr gave a nod, but inside, his mind was numb, as if every sense were dulled. He hardly heard Onund’s words about his kinsmen.
“...the rest of us were taken as slaves,” the man finished.
He waited expectantly for Styr to respond, but the image of Elena blurred with his thoughts of Caragh.
He remembered the night she’d fallen overboard, and her struggle to swim.
Elena wasn’t a strong swimmer, either. If she’d jumped off the ship, she must have believed she was going to die—likely at the hands of their enemies.
He imagined her slender body falling beneath the water, her limbs lifeless, and something within him snapped.
“What about the other men?” he prompted.
The cold need for vengeance threaded through him.
Caragh’s brother was responsible for all of it.
He didn’t care if the boy was only seven and ten.
Because of Brendan, his men were slaves, and his wife might be dead.
A haze of fury roared through him at the thought.
“All survived,” Onund answered. “We were brought here to be sold. I know where some of the others are.”
“How were you even taken by a handful of Irish boys?” Styr demanded. “Were you not trained to slay your enemies?”
Onund’s own anger rose up. “Did you want them to kill Elena?” His hands clenched, his expression tight. “We were going to attack sooner, but the boy threatened to cut Elena’s throat.” He grimaced, as if regretting their actions. “We didn’t trust him not to kill her.”
Brendan deserved a slow, painful death. A blood-red rage smothered any pity he might have felt. He’d endangered Elena, and that, Styr would not forgive. As soon as he found the boy, he would sheathe a blade in his heart.
But first, he had to find him.
“Your new master,” Styr began, “is he trustworthy?”
“I think so, yes.” A twisted expression slid over Onund’s face. “But I am a freeman, Styr. I won’t live like this.”
“I’ll see to it that you are released,” he promised. “As soon as I can.”
Onund inclined his head and retreated among the other thralls. Ivar came forward and said, “Have you a place to stay this night? We can speak of your men, and I’ll offer my hospitality.”
It was then that he remembered Caragh in hiding, and his thoughts stilled. She would do anything necessary to protect her brother. Soft-hearted and innocent, he didn’t want her to know of his intentions.
“We have a ship,” he said to Ivar. “There is no need for you to grant shelter, though I am grateful for the offer.”
“But we have much to discuss this night, about your men and how they came to be slaves,” Ivar said smoothly. “Dine with us and share the longhouse.”
“And what of my Irish companions?” he ventured.
“They are welcome, too.” Ivar glanced at the door. “You are speaking of the woman who is in hiding outside, I presume?”
Styr sent him a dark look, and Ivar shrugged. “I have men who remain on guard upon the roof of my house. I am a man of wealth, and I guard what is mine.”
Styr nodded and went outside, keeping his hand upon his blade. Caragh had remained in hiding, as he’d wanted her to, and when he helped her stand, she limped alongside him toward the house.
“What did you learn?” she asked.
“Some of my men are here.” But he left out the rest of what he knew, especially about Elena.
It was unlikely his wife had survived. He knew too well, how dangerous it was to swim toward the shore. The intense cold of the Irish Sea, coupled with her weak swimming abilities, would easily drown a man.
“And your wife?” Caragh prompted. “Did they know where she is?”
Styr could only shake his head. “I plan to free Onund, and I hope he can show me the place where Elena...went missing.” He refused to speak of her death, as if admitting it would make it a certainty. But inwardly, his thoughts were a tangled mass of fury and doubt.
Caragh’s eyes mirrored his own worry. “I hope she is safe.”
“For your brother’s sake, I hope so, too.” He didn’t care how harsh he sounded. She needed to understand that he would not show mercy to anyone who threatened his family.
She blanched, her fingers clenched together. “He’s only a boy, Styr.”
“No.” He wouldn’t make excuses for the young man.
“He intended to attack us, and because of it, my men were sold into slavery.” He took her by the hand and led her up into the dwelling.
“Believe me, if he earned any silver from the capture of my men, he will lose every last coin. And if my wife is dead...”
He didn’t need to speak another word, nor did he bother to keep the coldness from his tone.
Caragh stared back at him, and pulled her hand away, repeating, “He’s a boy.” Lowering her gaze, she remained behind him while he led the way to Ivar.
After Styr introduced them, the man’s eyes passed over her with appreciation.
Caragh’s face flushed, and Styr turned away to hide the surge of annoyance.
Contrasted against her young beauty, Ivar was an older man who had likely enjoyed his share of women.
And Styr didn’t intend for Caragh to be one of them.
He could read the thoughts upon the man’s face and knew what they meant.
He longed to slice the smile from the man’s face.
Because you want her, his body chided. You see her beauty and you want no one else to possess her.
Untrue, his mind responded. Elena has my loyalty and always will.
He shielded the emotions, shrugging them away. Caragh was an unmarried maiden and a beautiful one. Why should he care if she smiled at a Norseman? Or if she drew his attentions? She could do as she pleased, and it mattered not to him.
Liar, his body responded.
“Is she your woman?” Ivar questioned, using the Irish language so that Caragh could understand him.
Before Styr could answer, Caragh raised her chin. “I am my own woman. I belong to no man.”
The smile that curved over the Norseman’s face held interest and desire. “Well said.” He gave the command for a female thrall to accompany her. “I invite you to share a meal with us, if you are willing.”
The slight emphasis he placed upon the word willing made Styr’s hand move towards his battleaxe. He didn’t doubt that Ivar wanted Caragh to be willing in another manner. His mood darkened even more at the thought.
“Would you like to refresh yourself?” Ivar offered. His gaze passed over her blue gown, and he added, “My slaves could offer you something else to wear, while they care for your garments. That is, if you wish to try the clothing of our women.”
Caragh smiled at him gratefully. “You are very kind.”
“Of course.” Speaking in the Norse language, he ordered his slaves to begin heating water for a bath.
When the man was out of earshot, Styr moved beside Caragh. “He has his eye upon you. I don’t like it.”
Her mouth opened slightly, and she sent him a dark glare. “Why should it bother you?”
“I don’t trust him.” His hand moved up to cup her chin. “Norsemen tend to take what they want.”
She pushed his hand away. “He has thus far treated me with kindness. Unlike someone else who is threatening my brother.”
He caught her wrist before she could retreat. “Be careful, Caragh.” Her innocence could lead her into real danger, and he didn’t want any harm to come to her.
Her violet-blue eyes turned serious. “Let me go.”